


Set to Self-Destruct

by stalemateGrey



Category: Homestuck
Genre: "&" represents concealed/uncertain/changing relationship, AU, Character Death, Most relationships unconfirmed/fluid/not yet relevant, Multi, Slow Build, There are going to be a lot of characters in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stalemateGrey/pseuds/stalemateGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Signless escaped his fate. After a hundred sweeps the Revolution has gone stale, rife with internal turmoil, eating itself from the inside out and Alternia and its Empire exists in a state of constant civil war. The Condesce is losing her touch and the Subjugglators are restless.<br/>Four adolescent trolls meet in a jail for people who no longer exist and plan for ultimate change.<br/>They are all agreed.<br/>To remake Alternia, they must first unmake it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fugitive

**Author's Note:**

> First fic ever, wish me luck  
> If you could give me pointers on characterisation that would be so very helpful, you have no idea
> 
> ( _thoughts_ , 'quotes', "speech", **emphasis** )

Karkat Vantas decides not to die quietly.

Karkat hasn’t seen the Signless in sweeps. Not him, nor his ( _pompous, whining, useless_ ) blood relative. The Signless and his True Heir – ( _fucking Kankri) –_ are currently off in the far-flung wastelands of the Outer Empire, with the rest of the Revolution (or rebellion, dependent on whose side you’re on). Travelling in their non-discriminatory, haemoneutral community on their Ship. Spreading ‘controlled chaos’ was how the Signless put it the last time he deigned to visit Karkat’s lowly, wholly unrevolutionary hive on Alternia. That was a while ago.

As far as the Signless is concerned, he only needs to care for Kankri. His ‘true heir’. His protégé. The ‘future of the Revolution.’

As far as the Signless is concerned, Karkat can rot.

Karkat’s never been told this in as many words, but the Signless has visited his hive all of five times in his cosmically unfunny joke of a life.

Kankri lives on the Ship.

There is a rage in Karkat. His bloodbrother and his ancestor don’t quite know where it comes from – they are all supposedly genetically identical, but the Signless is calm as fuck, and his bloodbrother, while naïve and sanctimonious, could hardly be called angry.

Karkat knows. He is a mutant. On Alternia. Kankri has never lived on Alternia; the ship was his home as soon as he crawled out of the caves, and no-one remembers the caves. The Signless is desperately out of touch with modern Alternia. _He still thinks it’s normal to be raised by your lusus, for fuck’s sake._ It’s been a large number of sweeps since that was normal, or even vaguely necessary. When he was younger and Sollux mentioned his ancestor coming over to train him psionically or Terezi boasted about her R4D1C4L L3G1SL4C3R4TOR 4NCESTOR it sort of made him want to puke or fling his husktop across the room. He failed to resist the temptation of the latter on a number of occasions. Of course the costs started to add up when the Signless cut off his allowance for refusing to become pacifist and stop training with his sickles.

 _That would be suicide, moron, fuck you very much_ , was Karkat’s opinion on that. It’s one of the many things he’ll never say to the Signless. He is still, despite everything, the one person Karkat won’t ever mouth off too. He hates himself a bit for that, sometimes.

But there are far worse fates than being raised by your lusus on Alternia. Karkat has seen neighbours, friends of his culled for the tiniest of misdemeanours, just a pretext for the gangs of restless adolescent highbloods giving up on hunting legally sanctioned cullbait or friendly-strifing the shit out of each other and going lowblood hunting just for the fun of it. The Condesce and therefore the establishment doesn’t care; to them a few random cullings are perfect for keeping the lowbloods in their place. The purples know that they need to keep the fear alive – the lowbloods vastly outnumber them, even with shorter lifespans, and with their noteworthy psychic abilities could probably give the blue-and-ups a run for their money.

More than a run for their money, probably, if they could get themselves in order. The Signless refuses to indulge in this and use the vast swathes of psychics that would be at his command if he were to ever stage an actual military coup rather than maintaining the barest minimum of defense. He insists that peaceful protest is the only way, and that it will work eventually.

Neither of these things are true.

Karkat doesn’t really care. The future is of no interest to him. The present is all that matters to a mutant-blood.

The sickle arcs through the air as he swings it from the wrist in a lazy figure of eight. As it comes up the edge catches the light and reflects it into his eyes. He ignores it. Purple smudges gather in his vision; he passes his hands over his eyes and blinks twice, still swinging the sickle in his left hand. The sickle’s double rests on the table. His unoccupied left hand drums his desk. (He’s always favoured his right side in combat, only recently having trained to adequacy with his left sickle.) Karkat is trying very hard not to psyche himself out, as he’s done several times previously, waiting for the right time.

There is no right time. He could waste his life waiting for the right time. He decides not to.

Is there ever really a right time to die?

If he wants to live, he has to disappear – go off the grid. He appreciates this, and he knows it would be easier to slip off subtly, maybe scratch out a reasonably dignified existence in the wild. They definitely wouldn’t catch him if he vanished quietly, avoided civilisation for a bit.

Quietly has never been Karkat’s style.

Karkat has always known that if he tries to live a normal life, he will be culled. It is an immutable fact in his mind; it weighs on his every decision, every future plan. Or lack of them.  He doesn’t want to be culled. But he has accepted it. Prepared for it. He isn’t ready, he doesn’t think he ever will be, but at least he is prepared. He’s not going out quietly.

Karkat Vantas is going out as unquietly as is physically fucking possible, and not in the trumpets and fireworks sense. His swansong will be to fire and mayhem. He feels sorry for all the hapless douchebags who happen to live in his hive cluster, they really have no luck. He doesn’t want to cause too much collateral damage – well – actually that’s bullshit, he wants to wreak havoc on the general area. It’s not like he has anything in particular against the morons who will fail to get in his way; it’s not really their fault the trolls he gives a shit about nearby can be counted on zero hands.

His ( _shitty_ ) hive is one of the many things he won’t miss however he leaves, even if he leaves in a corpse box. Grey and dull and with permanent scars, burns and patched-up holes on the wall from sickle training, mishaps with strife bots and the _stupid fucking_ viruses he got from Sollux when they were kids, before he cut himself off.

For the past sweep, as long as he’s been planning this, all of the stuff he actually needs has been packed in a large canvas bag in the corner, gathering dust. He’d been saving for a new fetch modus for perigees, and he finally managed to order an array modus a sweep ago – the missing piece. This is assuming he escapes at all. _I hardly think a ragged collection of shredded flesh and bone dust will have much fucking use for a few shitty tins of grubloaf anyway._

It’s three perigees before he has to enlist – or rather, before he’s slated for culling. The army runs blood tests on enlistment to root out the last of the haemoneutral trolls – i.e. him and whichever other fuckers hide behind grey, if they exist – and find out what they’re hiding. It’s all under the context of medicals but no-one’s fooled. Trolls who are sick with any permanency don’t make it aboard the Empire’s ships. For obvious reasons.

He released his lusus into the sea yesterday. That took some doing. Who knew the bastard would get so attached to him?

(The tightness in his chest when he realised he could no longer make out so much as a silhouette of his lusus was almost certainly because the sea air made him want to choke. Certainly not because he thought about all the ways his lusus could die – predatory wild lusus, trolls with predatory wild lusus – and swallowed around the lump in his throat.)

The time is now. He’s going to disappear in a blaze of glory, or die trying.

Husk-top chucked in bag. Bag over shoulder.

Karkat walks out into the midday sun. He thanks fuck for the various layers of sun protection he ordered under a jadeblood identity. Although they do up his douchebag level by about three hundred percent. What can you do?

The hives near him are in a vague semi-circle, more of a u-shape, around a large grassy area, with the power telepole accenting the u at the top end. Below-ground wires deliver power to the hive. The nearest shuttle-port is a ten minute walk away, and the travel for a drone is fifteen minutes fastest. A three minute run down a dirt track takes you to deep woods. Karkat know the universe smiled on him for once in his rather calamitous life with the placement of his hive.

He ambles over to the telepole at the top of his road that contains the biowires connecting the hives on his street to the electrical network. He’s not rushing. After this he’ll either have all the time in the fucking universe or none of it at all. A small, dry chuckle bubbles up in his throat at the thought; he clamps down on it before he gets too hysterical, or loud. He takes one look at the numerical keypad panel guarding the biowires within the telepole and smashes his fist complete with knuckleduster into it. The keypad sparks and the whole panel falls off. (He smirks.  He always was a fucking awful hacker. _And, woah, Karkat, now is not the time to think of hackers you can’t talk to anymore. Get your fucking head straight._ )The biowires are black-green and shiny, almost slick. His sickle slices the master bio-wire. Sparks fly.

He leaps back to avoid burns. His block, and indeed the entire street, goes bright as everyone’s shaded planes deactivate and sunlight streams through everyone’s windows. An orchestra of the groans of sleep-enraged trolls being startled awake begins playing.

Disoriented yells and growls fill the air. _Ah, surprised hormonal trolls,_ he thinks, _truly we are the master race_. A computer monitor flies through a fenestrated plane.

_Have to move fast now, technician drones’ll be here to see what’s going on soon._

After scrabbling in his bag for a bit a fireflare blazes to life, momentarily dazzling him behind his shades.

He looks at the trail of flammable liquid – and really, why did the websites not check that the troll ordering exactly a fuckton of lighter fluid was not a murderous psychopath? _I guess the Empire’s got no beef with murderers. Only the physically impaired and the genetically different. Ok, enough Kankri-isms, I’ll start on trigger warnings in a second._

 _Do conversations in your head count as talking to yourself?_ That train of thought gets cut off quicker than the bio-wire did. _I’m crazy enough as it is, fuck you very much._

The day is ablaze as the fireflare meets lighter fluid. Heat like he’s never felt, to beat the midday sun scorches through the surrounding landscape. It’s been wet recently – another factor for acting now, he could have a forest fire on his hands if the grass was dry – and thankfully the blaze holds its shape. He drops the second fireflare and everything clicks into place. He can hardly believe it’s worked.

The sign of the Signless. Before his bullshit bureaucracy revolution. When people thought things would actually change.

Ought to get him noticed, at any rate.

The buzz of technician drones fills the air. Karkat runs, just a little too hastily, towards the wood just a while away from his hive. (He is rewarded with scraped knees and ripped jeans. The general area is rewarded with copious amounts of imaginative swearing.)

There is soot in his hair and black smudges paint his face from the blaze and the fire flares, his knees and palms are grazed and his clothes are ripped. He knows if anyone sees him now, they’re going to see the connection pretty quickly, and then it will be adieu, Karkat Vantas. But he’s tired. He’s at the edge of the woods and running on about four hours sleep in as many days. The running took the last of his energy out of him, and the technician drones have surely contacted the Imperial culling drones by now. Once fully under the cover of trees – even the Imperials will need serious equipment and high-level damage clearance to pursue him into the forest – he pitches his portable hive and lies on his back in it, hoping for sleep. The ground is hard and he can feel small stones poking into his back; he never got much sleep in a recuperacoon, so he’s basically fucked here. He shuffles around a bit, turning over and over. He searches for comfort to no avail and finally decides he has to do something. He bought a fair few sopor pills before he left; he decides now is as good a time as any and rummages around in his rucksack until he finds a packet. Takes one dry (limited water supplies). Lays back down.

After a few minutes he is still alert. He rubs his eyes furiously; they itch and his vision blurs with tiredness. All he gets is dirt in eyes, which begin to water profusely, more treasonous red spilling over and creating cold, damp patches in his hair. He groans, too exhausted and apathetic to care anymore.  The bags under his eyes seem to weigh him down.

His last thought is _Fuck, this is it. The Rest of My Life._


	2. Challenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meenah is taking what she wants at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit shorter than last chapter but this is only part one of this really

Meenah Peixes refuses to die quietly.

The Condesce awaits her. Of course. Meenah knows she is waiting the second she walks into the building. There are no guards anywhere – not the least sign of a demented purple or turncoat yellowblood bodyguard. No servants, no footmen, guards, watchmen, cooks, handmaids or any of the people who usually animate the Imperial Palace.

It feels dead.

They are genetically identical. To Meenah’s intense disgust, they are also practically mentally identical, right down to the lust for power and inherent impatience. She knows Meenah’s reasoning for challenging her – early, incredibly early at barely eight sweeps – would go like this. The Condesce is old. Incredibly old. She was there when the Sufferer escaped, which was a long while ago now. Meenah is young, fast and strong. That’s got to be an advantage. The Condesce won't be expecting a challenge for another couple of sweeps at least. Element of surprise. On top of that, she probably expects Feferi to challenge. She’s always shown more interest in training. (Meenah trains in secret, always. The Condesce knows of this anyway.)

Of course, these aren't the only reasons. Meenah is so, so bored. If she doesn’t _do something_ she might explode. Or kill someone. It might as well be her. And whatever happens, she'll be out of this stifling hell hole for good.

And most importantly, why wait until you're ready when you could be ruling tomorrow?

Here’s why.

Meenah descends from her tower at midnight. It should be bustling. It’s deathly silent.

She’s nervous, although she hides it well. If she learnt anything from the Condesce, it’s how to keep a superior smile on at all times, no matter what you actually feel.

For all her training, and all her bluster, she knows she will probably lose. The thought of change, of the end, or whatever happens to failed challengers, scares her and excites her in a way that is probably unhealthy.

 **Whatever. Today things're gonna change round here, one way or another.** She smirks to herself; her practically inevitable defeat aside, she is doing something. She is going to show that bitch exactly who ought to be ruling. **Mostly that it sure as fuck ain’t her.**

In the past, what feels like a long time ago to Meenah, she revered the Condesce, went out of her way to be like her, down to the stupid-as-fuck fish puns ( **awesome fish puns tbh, but it’s the principal.** ) The Condesce is just a scaled-up, psychotic version of her, with more of a taste for murder. **Just ain’t cool, Condy. Blood’s a bitch to get outta the floor.** She’s glad she ditched the bodysuit for jeans and a t-shirt – she always knew it was ridiculous, she thinks – really impractical to change in and out of, no fun to fight in. But Her Imperious Condescension wore it, and so of course Meenah had to.

Post-outfit change, she would revel in the little looks the Condesce shot her when she sauntered into dinner in jeans and put her sandals on the table. The Condesce is old beyond her looks; there is an embedded sense of propriety still there, despite how she looks. Acts. Talks. Somehow she still hangs onto the slightly hypocritical notion that heiresses don’t come to the table in jeans.

The thing she hates most about the Condesce is that no matter how much Meenah tries to distance herself from her past adulation and the woman herself, she still shares most of her traits: she can’t deny her love for expensive, gold things, nor her ruthless ambition, any more than she could eat her own gill. (She still slips into fish-puns in stressful situations, a hangover she can’t escape.)They’re too similar; there can only be one of her, and for a while now the Empress has been impinging on her territory for far too long. (Not exactly temporally accurate but let’s not pretend that is important to Meenah.)

She clenches her fist around her trident, and matches the movement with her other hand. Her claws dig into her palm too hard; her knuckles ache and she feels a drop or two of fuchsia blood slip between her fingers. The footsteps echo impossibly in the gilded hallway and up the stairs; she glances back once or twice, convinced someone is following her. Her only company is the numerous paintings of the Condesce that line the hallway in gilt edged frames, and the bizarre moving images of dancing clowns which fill the spaces in between. (Meenah is yet to work out how she blingee’d a wall.) The windows cast long blocks of shadow into the stone corridor; gold artefacts and ornaments as well as precious gems and other sparkly things are strewn about the corridor in a needless display of wealth. Multiple bioluminescent creatures illuminate the corridor in a net nailed to the ceiling. (an indulgence – troll eyes can’t handle much more light than that.) It’s midnight; the busiest time of night. The Imperial Palace is eerily silent. 

The Imperial Palace is never silent.

(Deep down Meenah can’t help but respect the Condesce taking her on one-on-one – better than simply culling her in her sleep, or chucking her in jail the minute she caught wind of Meenah’s plans.

Although it says something about how confident the Condesce is. Meenah pushes that thought right down. **She’s just baiting me** _ **.** _ Meenah winces. Fish puns; never a good sign.

 **Oh, for cod’s hake.** )

She reaches the throne room. Two immense stone doors carved with the Peixes sign, twice the height of the tallest troll you care to name. Gold doorknobs, replete with intricate engravings. Shut.

She resists the urge to knock and looks down for a second.  Takes a deep breath, and pushes both doors open. She is immensely satisfied when they slam into the walls dramatically. A shark grin splits her face in two.

It is mimicked more malevolently by the be-bodysuited tyrant lounging sideways on the (solid gold) throne at the head of the room. The Condesce lays almost horizontally across the throne, torso twisted to face the door and chin in hand, hair carpeting the floor to the left of the throne. So faux-nonchalant.

Their height difference is enough to be noteworthy. Meenah (futilely) hopes it’ll make it easier for her to dodge. Her weapon rests at her feet – still longer and thicker than Meenah’s training one.

 “Whale, Meenah, girl. I’ve been wading for you.” Meenah can hear the puns. It makes her want to grimace. Her grin doesn’t as much as twitch. “You gonna get searious with me now. Sole porpoise of the heir is to krill the Condesce, first opportunaty she gets.” She pauses, and her smile rivals Meenah’s (painful, forced) one now. “And yes, the puns are shrimply to fish you off.”

Meenah thinks back to a few years ago. She probably would have barely contained her squeal at that sentence. She slips into a sly smile. **Whale, might as well octopi her for a few minnowtes, buy me a bit of time.**  (She can't believe she used to find fish puns entertaining.)

She saunters into the room. Uselessly large, again, more imperial portraits, more jewels and gold, more _clowns_. But otherwise empty. Three thrones at the top, mounted on a raised platform – hers, Feferi’s and the occupied one. Jewel encrusted, of course. Gold and silver, and incredibly uncomfortable. A chandelier of strange bioluminescent creatures in jars disperses a strange blue glow through the room; rippling wavy patterns of light embellish the ceiling. Large arched windows give a view of the reef the Imperial Palace is carved into and built on.

“I codn’t care less, Condy.” Point to Meenah. Her adversaries’ sense of propriety is coupled with a need to be respected; nicknames are a mortal sin in her book. Her grin shrinks a little. “Yachtta know me better, shorely. Fish puns are my fin. An’ who says I’m your anemone anyway? My porpoises could be entirely frondly.”  The Condesce leans her head right back, (exposing her neck, **could I just…?** ) and makes a big show of rolling her eyes dramatically. “Cut the shit, girl, you ain’t used fish puns in three sweeps, not since that crab with Mindfang’s deseandant. I’ve said it beshore, and I’ll say it again: she _had_  to be exiled – she was just gonna turn out like her treaseanous glubbing anseastor.”

Meenah’s smile drops right off her face. (She manages not to flinch). There was always a mutual agreement not to mention Aranea ever again after what happened. Meenah never regained her trust in the Condesce after that.

“An’ you carrying your weapon. That thing ain’t practical to carry around, you here to challenge me. Good glubbing luck, girl.”

“Wow, those puns are getting’ pretty old. Like you. Whyn’t you jus’ step the fuck down right now? Take a hike, ‘pike’, whatever; make things easier for both of us.” Lip twisted upwards into a sneer, swallowing around an aggressive growl rumbling in her throat, Meenah lays her offer on the table. “Or how ‘bout I stick my fork through your back.” The Condesce’s grin is terrifyingly large, all sharp teeth and frostbite cold.

“Less of the old, shark bait, I’ll fork you ‘fore you can say ‘Please forgive me, your Imperious Condescension.’ I’ve ruled over the place for most of Alternia’s existence itself. The shell makes you think I’m gonna step down just ‘cus some _wiggler_ tells me to? Why? Just for the halibut?” Her face stays grinning, threateningly. Meenah shifts her weight onto her back foot – a fighting stance.

“Can you just shut the hell up for once? I’m sick of your bullshit. It’s my turn to rule now.” She takes up her trident in both hands.

The Condesce flips her legs back over the arm of the chair, so she is in a sitting position. She crosses her ankles and picks up her trident, leaning forward so she can rest her face against it. Her mouth forms a ridiculous pout, making a mockery of being put out. “Why now, Meenah? We were so close." She purrs this out, like it's the best joke she's ever told. "An’, no offence, but you’re kinda small still. You should wait a while, til you actually pose a threat. Might be more entertaining for me at least. Let’s just forget eelings for now, part as fronds, or at least not anemones. Come back when you’re stronger.”

Meenah snarls outright.  “No. I get a question now. How’d’you know today?”

“What're you getting at?” Her face is all innocence. Sweetness and light. **Ha fucking ha.**

“Ain’t a guard in the whole ‘dam plaice’, . Jus’ a little suspect if you ask me.” The Condesce looks bored again, although the slight twist in her lip at ‘Condy’ delights Meenah.

“P obvious, girl, you never take your trident out of your room in the day normally. Just ordered ever’one to clamscray the minute you showed up with your trident. Thought you might like it to be just you and me.”

Meenah’s face stays grim. “Thanks for the gesture. Fight me.” The Condesce rises to her feet almost lazily, still leaning on her trident.

“Your fish is my clammand, sharkbait.” Meenah rolls her eyes one last time.

And they both charge. 


	3. Hacker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here be Captors

Sollux Captor will not die quietly.

The propaganda gets to Sollux sometimes; it’s hard to ignore something that is literally surrounding you all day, every day. On  the internet, all his adverts are for early recruitment, helmsman training, general advertisements showing what a lark it is to be wired into  a ship and run ragged until there’s nothing left to run, until your own blood drips from your ears and eyes and mouth and nose and there’s nothing left, just the ship. Until you are the ship. It was in his email, and he would get anonymously trolled about it, before he set up the mother of all spam filters on Trollian. But still he is bombarded, constantly, and sometimes, rarely, in a weak moment when he’s at his lowest and his thoughts all begin to run together he thinks it might just be easier to give in and sign up already.

**It’s my duty to obey I belong in a ship that’s what psionics are for there are no other options I might as well just give up**

These thoughts don’t last long. The voices of the dead tend to drown them out for a start.

But also, Sollux has delved deep into the murky depths of the internet, beyond firewalls and Imperial blocks, to the Revolution websites and beyond. By eight sweeps he has a hard-drive full of proxies, and he knows a lot more about the ins and outs of helmsmanship than the Imperial government want him to.

He finds a log, posted on the internet by Revolution hackers, written into the coding of a wrecked ship secretly by the psionic helmsman that ran it into a moon. It illustrates, in excruciating detail, the deterioration of mind, body and spirit that a helmsman will experience without fail. The log began largely coherently, much like a diary, except with rather more of a focus on the intense pain of existing within a ship, let alone moving it. Over the course of a sweep, tops, it degenerates into stream of conscience babbling, raw expressions of agony – Sollux appreciates this psionic must have been a genius to have kept the code hidden so well, even in the condition they ended up in. Probably put in controls for loss of faculties from the offset, while at the same time running a ship and disguising his actions.

On top of this.

There was Mituna. His bloodbrother.

Sollux’s memories of him were fading. Mituna received a conscription letter at eight sweeps, when Sollux was six. Legally a psionic had to be at least ten sweeps before being integrated into even a small ship; Mituna was so precocious psionically, as the son of _the_ Psionic, that someone high up decided they might as well not waste any more time. He was wired into a dreadnought and piloted into battle at merely nine sweeps. The dreadnought came back in literal pieces; Mituna came back in metaphorical pieces. He could hardly speak for days and even after that he was more than a little incoherent. Gone was the witty intelligent older brother Sollux grew up with; in his place a babbling, crude moron with the mentality of a child. Sollux could not talk to him the few times he saw him on leave. It was obvious neither of them wanted the other there. Mituna seemed ashamed and lost beneath his slurring bravado. In a rare moment of lucidity he complained that he no longer felt a troll, but a ship, albeit said slightly less clearly. You never really leave once you’re wired in, so the Ψiioniic said.

Serving on the Condesce’s ship left minimal free time, although he managed to train both of them to a high psionic level before Mituna was forcibly conscripted into service and the Ψiioniic severely punished for defying the Empire. He fought against the conscription letter so hard. He sent them both out into the asscrack of nowhere, away from their hivestem penthouse, took them off the grid, threatened to run away and join the Revolution (he wouldn’t dare, he had an automatic tracker that honed in on him when he was more than a hundred miles from the military base on Alternia. He’d still rather die than give away the Revolution’s location.)

Of course this was a fatal mistake. Even at the time Sollux knew how wrong he’d got it. The anonymity of the city would be a much better hiding place than risking a small town where everything is news. In the city if you moved hivestem once and didn’t use the internet at all nobody knew where you were. Out in the middle of nowhere someone was bound to spot three mustardbloods moving in unannounced to the most distant hive.

They were found in mere perigees. Sollux’s breathing still begins to speed up when he thinks on the night his ancestor pulled him roughly from his recuperacoon and flung him down some stairs with scant explanation other than “Hide!” The night he spent in a cupboard in their cellar, listening to the whir of drones muffled by brick walls but nonetheless audible, and the sounds of boots stomping. The night he spent desperately hoping his still somewhat unpredictable telekinetic powers would keep quiet for once, just for once.

The outraged cries of Mituna and the Ψiioniic being manhandled into transportation drones, cuffed, ring in his ears sometimes.

After the raid he did what he knew they should have done in the beginning. Using the savings the Ψiioniic made sure they all had access to in case of emergency (and it was emergency – neither Mituna nor Sollux risked leeching any of the money for their personal benefit for fear of the Ψiioniic’s anger and the punishment on getting caught) and took a small hivestem apartment in a bad neighbourhood near where they used to live. He tried to conceal his lusus for all of a perigee but eventually had to move him to a cave outside of the city. He checked on it periodically, and worried that it was getting increasingly feral. It was dangerous for him to travel too much – it involved conspicuous movement and electronic payment, which made it easier for the Empire to track his movement.

He can’t help but wonder if he is going mad with paranoia. Sometimes he thinks he hears the voices of the dead in his head, but he tries to block them out. Immediately he goes offline – doesn’t as much as pay for a connection, walking to internet cafes when he wants to use the internet. His online friends have been dropping like flies – one of his best friends hadn’t been online in half a sweep, and his increasing paranoia in the perigees between Mituna’s conscription letter and the final raid on their hive lead him to slowly stop talking to most of his others. Or perhaps they stopped talking to him – the voices in his head became loud enough to influence his conversations and he could have easily scared them off. A sweep after Mituna and the Ψiioniic are taken Sollux Captor does not exist.

Since they were taken he hasn’t seen the Ψiioniic at all; he was wired into the Condesce’s battleship permanently – the sole Ψiioniic piloting it – as punishment for ‘obstructing the acquisition of assets to the Empire’. This was on top of the tracking bracelet that activated at a distance of more than fifty miles from the military base or the Condesce’s ship for past revolutionary offences. He was a pet, kept for the Condesce’s entertainment, unable to join his friends, seeing his family rarely. And now he could never leave. He was an engine. An ‘asset to the Empire’ and nothing more. But then that was how all psionics were seen.

He saw Mituna several times, the first time immediately after the crash, and it was probably the most painful thing he’d ever done, emotionally. Although he was basically in hiding after the raid on his hive he managed to visit him. He had already created several aliases, complete with internet backgrounds, and came to the hospital claiming to be Mituna’s former moirail – a plausible enough story considering all psionics were legally required to break up with quadrantmates on conscription (and doubly plausible because everyone knew they would just get back together once on leave). Of course he had to wear a stupid hat to hide his horns – they were pretty distinctive. But it was winter and freezing; some trolls had sensitive horns, no-one was going to question it. The woman at reception certainly didn’t.

Unlike most people Sollux doesn’t particularly mind hospitals; he has always found other’s talk of the stench of death and disease laughable. Hospitals smell of disinfectant to him, nothing more. Illness and death is wherever you look, an unavoidable fact of life. They just happen to have a higher concentration of it.

What he saw shocked him. Mituna was a burbling wreck, hardly coherent. His left back horn was chipped and he seemed to struggle to control his limbs. He was a shadow of his former self – impossible to converse with, his personality and mentality completely changed, probably to block out what happened. The Empire shoved their latest asset into battle far too fast; they had broken him.

The memory still plays in his mind all the time, on top of the voices

**the screams of my family, my friends dying in pain endlessly forever**

**shut up SHUT UP**

which are getting louder.

(memories are a welcome distraction).

_Sollux does not enter the room immediately but leans against the doorway slightly apprehensively, trying to guess at the emotional state of his brother, who is currently staring blankly into space, although he is definitely awake._

_“Sup, ‘Tuna?” He starts with an easy smile – his brother appears to be largely in one piece, which is always good._

_His first misgivings begin when Mituna’s face splits into an uncharacteristically manic grin. He pins it down to medicines at first, and thinks the same when it takes about ten seconds for Mituna to answer._

_“Sollux!” he yells, just a little too loud for his hearing to be entirely what it used to be, which Sollux supposes is not unreasonable. What really unnerves him is the way Mituna mangles his name, so it sounds more like “Shollukth”._

_He scratches the back of his head awkwardly and says, “Yeah, eheh, that’s me. So, how are you doing?” He sort of dreads the answer._

_“Hehehe, I’m just fucking fine thanks, you yellow scumbag.” Mituna starts giggling uncontrollably._

_Sollux is a little taken aback. “Whoa, dude, uncalled for. And shut up, I’m supposed to be your moirail.”_

_Mituna gives him a strange look and suddenly flops back, noodle-limbed. “Sorry.” he mumbles, half-apologetic and half-surly._

_“’s no big deal. Jeez, calm your tits.” He comes off a little snappy even though he doesn’t mean it. Whoever this troll wearing his brother’s face is, it’s certainly not Mituna._

_The not-Mituna look at him, truly dejected, for no real reason. “Sorry.” He mumbles. Sollux feels like he’s being played with, even though he knows rationally it’s nothing of the sort._

_This is when he realises the brother he knew is gone. Mituna never was like this before. His features harden and he feels ill. He knows he’s supposed to be caring but he just ends up passive-aggressively sniping at him for ten minutes, before storming out, unreasonably furious._

Even now the memory gives him a migraine.

Sollux could hardly bear to look at the wreck his brother had become; he knew he had to be supportive but. But.

He still wanted to be a douche to Mituna like he always was, and for Mituna to snark back. He just wanted their normal relationship back. The stupid comments he made and the vomits of “Sorry” disgusted Sollux, despite his best efforts to be sympathetic.

He just couldn’t bear to see his brother like that. It gave him a twisted feeling in his stomach, and not for entirely selfless reasons either. **Is this what I have to look forward to in the ship?**

_A hysterical, bitter laugh scrapes up his windpipe as he turns back down the corridor after the attempted conversation with his brother. His fingers dig into his palms and his prominent front teeth bite down on his lip hard – a nervous tic of his._

**I’ll pass, thanks, assholes.**

_A sneer curls on his lips and he stalks out of the hospital._

He knows he’s being emotionally avoidant, passing on seeing his brother on numerous occasions, and being brief at best on the few times he actually sees him. But he just can’t handle what Mituna’s become. What he will doubtless become.

He throws himself into his coding, finds out every detail of the painful truth about the ‘profession’ he is destined for. He begins to make money doing freelance ( _more like no-questions-asked_ ) coding; he stops short of doomsday viruses but Sollux Captor has indirectly wrecked some shit by the age of almost eight sweeps. No missive of conscription has arrived yet.

Shortly before his eighth wriggling day he receives an email on the account of Mituna’s ‘moirail’. It is short and not particularly thoughtful. It reads as follows.

‘Subject: Helmsman #645322 Status Update for former quadrantmates

To the former significant other of Helmsman #645322 [Captor, Mituna],

Hail Her Imperious Condescension.

Your former quadrantmate, whilst on a mission to conquer a hostile planet for the Empire, was forced to exert a considerable amount of telekinetic energy to escape an enemy onslaught. He managed to return his ship to the Motherworld, and saved a number of lives.

For this he is receiving First Class Honors for assisting the Empire, and will have a plaque erected in his honor at a later date.

However the rescue was at significant cost to his psionic and mental faculties. He is no longer able to psionically power a ship. He is therefore no longer of use to the Empire and will be culled.

This is an official culling notice. His execution is in one (1) perigee at 00.00 hours. You may or may not choose to attend.

The Empire sends its condolences,

Continue to serve the Empress as usual on pain of culling.’

Sollux does not attend. He cries for twenty minutes before closing up completely. A burning hatred for near everything begins to take him over, and he becomes almost a puppet for his rage. The hypocrisy of the Empire, the fact that they told him about his **honours** and his imminent **death** in the **same letter** , just makes him sick. It sort of kills him; he feels half-dead.

He lives like that too; constantly thinking of what awaits him and the need to do something about it. He throws himself into hacking with the sole intent of wrecking shit. He sends out so many viruses from the internet cafes he frequents he’s almost surprised the city is still functional. Every time there’s a thought in his brain; **how many sweeps in jail. How long before I get caught for this; culled for this** _._ And then **Who gives a fuck, as long as they all suffer.** From internet cafes he messes with navigation systems, drives ships into meteor belts, sends space armadas into the middle of nowhere. He shuts down weapons and defence systems in the middle of enemy attacks; just generally wrecks and sabotages anything he can. He probably kills numerous people. Doesn’t really give a damn. The Empire begins to put adverts in newspapers – propaganda threats and thinly veiled ‘wanted’ posters demanding the capture of the saboteur wrecking their shit. The Revolution congratulates but distances themselves from him – too many deaths is bad PR, even if they hurt the Empire.

He doesn’t want anything to do with their bullshit revolution. He knows it’s just going to end in one dictator or another.

Although all his thoughts are drowned out by the constant ticking of the countdown in his head. Eight sweeps. Moment of truth.

He feels as though the empire is toying with him. He can’t truly have evaded them all this time, surely one day the drones will come knocking. Nihilism consumes him; he gives up on caution, begins creating viruses on his laptop, a virtual paper trail leading straight back to him. Somehow his defiance combines with a strange sense of resignation; his empty apartment is driving him mad, he thinks he hears the drones at his doors. The voices of the dying that he has never wanted to admit exist have become his only company. And they’re **_so loud_** _._

A contingency plan forms in his head; he will play the Empire’s game. He will be a good little battery, train properly, pass with flying colours – obviously. He will personally make sure he is wired into the largest ship he can get onto, one which leads plenty of others. Fleets. And he will drive them into the sun.

**I’d like to die with my mind intact, actually. If that’s not too much to ask.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly longer this time. There was a lot to fit in. In case it wasn't already obvious there is a lot of chronological bullshit going on. Also most of these are the first halves of chapters - a sort of introduction. There'll be a few more chapters before people meet up.


End file.
